Thursday, April 16, 2009

Angry old men


Glengarry Glen Ross is not one of my favourite movies. It's way much too bleak and pessimistic for that. It's a snapshot from the particularly grueling cold-calling circle of hell, a dystopia cynically presented not as a warning but as a callous reprimand against a callous humanity. With its real estate salesman strugging to keep their awful jobs, it is one of the movies I can watch over and over again and watch in pieces--15 minutes of Al Pacino seducing a schlep or five minutes of Kevin Spacey in a high prick dudgeon. It's one of the the only DVDs I own that's earned its keep as something to re-review, not as something that sits on a shelf proclaiming my superlative taste in film.

While the film version is fluid and textured, following our real estate retailers from argument to argument, sale to sale, the camera tying each diatribe together into a rain-soaked whole, the stage version is much more episodic (and does not contain the famous Alec Baldwin rant: "Put that coffee down. Coffee's for closers only. You think I'm fucking with you? I'm not fucking with you. I'm from downtown."). Each of the first act's two-handers ends with an exclamation point, while the second act is an extended set piece where the men act out during a police investigation into who stole the real estate leads.

Soulpepper's production of what is probably David Mamet's best known work corrals the scenes into tight pens, so tight they flash by before you quite know what's happened. In the first act, only one of the characters even gets up out of his seat. Certainly the well-stuffed red booths at the Chinese restaurant seem comfy enough, but the tables so restrict the movements of the actors, it denies them the possibility that they might reach out to each other (to hit each other, of course, not to comfort--this is Mamet, after all). Though there is more motion in the second act, the blocking seems particularly self-conscious, just a way to get the characters on and off the stage at the right time so there are no snarls in the dialogue. The effect is engrossing--we're left to focus on the words, which is the intention--but distancing.

Eric Peterson, in his second nasty role post-Corner Gas (after Festen last fall), does exceptional work as Shelley "The Machine" Levene, his pathetic pleading gradually slipping away to show the angry scheming underneath. But it was actually Peter Donaldson as Moss, in his conspiring with William Webster that seemed most authentic and original. The weakest link was Albert Schultz as the salesman of the moment, Ricky Roma. Schultz just didn't seem to be able to find the character's throughline, which moved through charismatic outlaw to spoiled brat to generous cheerleader and back to hack. I realize that nobody can beat Al Pacino, but there were times when Schultz's lack of charisma threatened to slow everybody else down. when, of course, they're all supposed to be catching up to Ricky Roma.

ALSO: This is two Soulpepper productions in a row that use a set backed with a flat, symmetrical linear design. I think they're taking too many cutes from the wood slats on the seating--I'd love to see a little chaos up there.

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